Tramps by Bill Tope

Tramps by Bill Tope

Prologue

The old man sat alone on a green-painted bench which sat beside the tracks, some 100 yards from the train depot. He shifted the heavy metal shape inside his parka to make himself more comfortable. Glancing back toward the station, he searched through the ant-like crowd of milling railroad workers for his friends. They were nowhere in sight. What could have happened? he wondered,

1

The three men and one woman sat around the flickering fire; one of them occasionally tossed a piece of wood onto the blaze. Vivid orange sparks shot into the air. A wine bottle changed hands and each, in turn, took a healthy swig of Annie Green Springs Apple Wine. After the bottle had been drained, Skylar, the acknowledged leader of the group, tossed the empty onto the fire, where it landed with a tinkle of broken glass and a little whoosh of liquid instantly vaporizing.

“Now’s ‘a’ time for the real deal,” he said with a grunt, extracting from his knapsack a large bottle of Mogen David 20/20.” Skylar knew that his companions needed to be eased into light inebriation before the introduction of a potable that, while effective, frankly tasted like medicine.

“Ooh, good!” said Amy, the only female amongst them. “Here, I’ll open it.” Taking the bottle from Skylar, she set aside her cane and slid a carefully manicured nail under the paper seal and split it open. “Here, you first,” she told Maglie, the oldest of the group at 69. “You ain’t nearly as wasted as the rest of us.” This was true: Maglie, the supposed one-time Olympic athlete, eschewed marijuana and, unlike the others, wasn’t stoned.

“Thanks, Amy,” rasped Maglie, accepting the bottle and taking a deep drink.

The final and youngest member of the group at 19, Timmy reached for the bottle. He too drank deeply, then heard his stomach rumble. Timmy hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before.

“We got to get Timmy some food,” interjected Amy, the resident mother hen. At 41, she felt a maternal instinct reach like a thread of gossamer toward the young man.

Timmy glanced gratefully at Amy and once again admired her; she was still an attractive woman, particularly considering she’d spent the previous decade on the streets.

Skylar pulled out the pockets of his parka and proceeded to count his money. He frowned. “$2.21,” he said with disgust. There was a sigh of disappointment all around. “Anyone else got any bread?” asked Skylar. He already knew the answer to that, for the others always dutifully deposited with him any spare change gleaned from panhandling, selling pop bottles, sporadic day labor and the like. He was, after all, the only passably responsible member of the group. He had been a sergeant in the Army and had served in Desert Storm. The others shook their heads no.

“Maybe,” suggested Maglie, we could collect some bottles.”

Skylar shook his head. “It’s too dark to see anything,” he said. “And besides, the recycling center is closed.”

They all sat around pensively. Skylar jingled the change in his pocket. While they could parlay the two bucks and change into a skeletal burger at the all-nite burger joint, that would leave them busted. And Skylar was always careful to retain some dough for an emergency ration of booze. The nights were long, and they weren’t nearly drunk enough yet. And the liquor shops, at least in this part of town, never closed.

“I’ll be alright,” volunteered Timmy. “In a few hours, the Salvation Army will open and I can grab breakfast then.” The others nodded somberly.

Skylar had not eaten in almost as long as his young friend, but his hardened carapace afforded him more leeway in going without food. After all, Skylar had been on the streets for nearly 20 years, longer than Timmy had been alive. He contemplated Maglie, who at nearly 70 had weathered homelessness since the early 1960s. He was a hard case. Skylar had never, in fact, seen the old man consume anything other than alcohol. And he had known him for 14 years.

“When’re you guys thinking about following the sun?” asked Timmy, taking another hit off the bottle. He was snookered now, and gave not another thought to food. Despite his still intact liver, Timmy was a cheap drunk.

Everyone looked at Skylar. As the defacto leader, it was his decision when the group departed the Midwest, where the pickings were generally better than in the South, There, so many people in the depressed areas in which they were permitted to take up residence led a hardscrabble life, even if they weren’t homeless. Today was Nov. 1 and the evenings were growing chilly.

“I been thinkin’,” said Skylar, who at 6 feet 2 inches and 240 pounds was also the largest amongst them, “that we might go West this winter. That new governor in California is motivated by guilt,” he said, “him being a Harvard graduate and all,” and  the others laughed. “We might do well to migrate to the Golden State this year. Hell,” he went on, “the Show Me State considerin’ makin’ it illegal to be homeless.”

“Then we should stay in Missouri and get arrested. We’d at least get a place to stay,” said Timmy naively.

“Shit, Timmy,” cried Amy, “they confiscate all your stuff and make you work cleaning up the highways.”

“Three squares a day,” remarked Timmy, suddenly hungry again.

“An’ they learn you got a record, then once you get out, you can’t eat at the soup kitchens no more,” Amy pointed out. “Those Christians are unforgiving. Besides, they rape you inside,” she said chillingly, remembering.

“Really?” asked Timmy. He had been homeless for only 6 months.

“I wouldn’t kid you none,” Amy assured the 19-year-old. “It’s the same everywhere. The police and the system will use, misuse, and abuse you, ’cause you’ poor and you can’t fight back.”

Timmy leaned back on his hands in the wet grass and thought about that.

“If’n we go West, let’s jus’ stay out of Frisco,” suggested Maglie, speaking for the first time in a while.

“Why?” asked Timmy, who seemed to demand an explanation for every statement.

“Because, junior,” rumbled the old man patiently, “it’ colder in Frisco than a witch’s tit in a brass brassiere.” Amy snickered. The old man was colorful.

“It always looks so warm on the TV,” said Timmy.

“You thinkin’ of Southern California,” said Maglie. “But, in LA it rain’ ever’ day in the winter. Least, it used to. But, now with climate change, you don’t know what you get. Could be a hurricane, a earthquake, a wildfire, landslide, flood; hell, I don’t wanna go to California, Skylar,” asserted the old man.

Skylar nodded. “We could go to Arizona,” he suggested.

“It’s run by fascists,” asserted Amy. “It’s practically illegal to be homeless there, too. And I don’t wanna be out picking aluminum cans off the highway in that heat!”

“How ’bout we move on over to Florida?” asked Timmy suddenly, for want of a better idea.

Skylar shook his large head ponderously. “No, they’re agin’ LGBTQs in the Sunshine State,” he explained, using the newly coined term.

“But,” said Timmy, “what’s that got to with us?”

Everyone just looked at him, uttering not a word.

“Hey,” he yelped, “I’m not queer!”

Still, no one said anything, but it was clear from the silence that Florida would not be their seasonal destination.

While Timmy sat defensively, brooding, Maglie spoke up, “Timmy,” the old man told him, “we yer’ friends. Don’ forget that. We got yer’ back, kid.”

Timmy nodded quietly.

2

The next night only three sat before makeshift fire — the three men. Timmy asked the others, “Where’s Amy?”

“Oinkers got ‘er,” replied Maglie darkly, pulling from his parka a half-smoked cigar and a plastic lighter. “Picked ‘er up for prostitution,” he went on, lighting the stogie. “She be in the 3rd Precinct lockup tonight.”

Skylar shook his head. “That could be bad news,” he reflected. “I know she wasn’t sellin’ her ass,” he said.

“How do you know?” asked Timmy.

“Because,” said Skylar gruffly, “she got HIV and wouldn’t do that to another human being.”

“Do the cops know that?” asked Timmy.

Skylar effected a mirthless smile. “No, and that’s their bad luck. You know why they pick up ladies and charge them with turning tricks, don’t you?”

Timmy opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“They do it to pass the chick amongst themselves, kid. They each take a turn and then let her loose — till the next time. It’s a dodge as old as time itself, Most of the ladies of the evenin’ got pimps, what pay protection to the pigs. Amy got no one and nothin’ but us.”

Timmy let this information sink in. “So,” he concluded, “that’s what they get?”

The other two men nodded.

“When will she be back on the streets?” asked Timmy.

“Could be any time,” replied Maglie. “She knows where we’ll be,” he said.

“Hell,” said Timmy, “I thought she must be a lesbian or something.”

“Why’d you think that?” asked Skylar.

“Well,” replied Timmy uncomfortably, “when I first met her, I asked her if she would do me and she said no.” When the other two men looked on, he continued, “well, you know, we had nothing to do, and it’s not like she could get pregnant or nothing, and she was sure pretty, and we were friends; I thought she’d expect me to at least try. But, she shot me down, said she didn’t do that anymore.”

“Amy used to be a hooker,” said Maglie, “till she got the virus. She just watchin’ out for your narrow ass, kid,” he said. “An’ she is your friend, don’t forget that.”

Timmy nodded. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Tim,” muttered Skylar. “We all had  the same ideas ourselves once. Amy ‘a good lookin’ girl, only natural you’d think of her.”

“What I want to know,” said Maglie with a twinkle, “is what would you’d have done if she took you up on your offer?”

Timmy grinned a little, glad that he now had friends who were party to his secret. Nothing further was said on the matter.

3

Not the next night, but the night after that, Amy was released; no charges had been filed. Timmy was especially glad to see her. “How are you, Amy?” he asked anxiously.

She took her customary place around the fire, between Timmy and Maglie, and across from Skylar. “I’m fine,” she replied. “My butt’s a little sore,” she said, almost to herself, rubbing her posterior. No one said anything.

“When we go West,” said Skylar, changing the subject, “I think we should get cell phones.”

“How much are they?” asked Amy.

“Nothin’,” replied Maglie. “George W. done and created the Lifeline Assistance Program last fall. Obama s’posed to grow it some. We can get cell phones at no cost!”

“I already got a cell phone,” volunteered Timmy, extracting the device from his jacket and showing it around.”

“Where’s you get that?” asked Maglie sharply. “You didn’t steal it, did you, kid?”

“No!” insisted Timmy. “My folks gave it to me last year, before they kicked me out of the house for being…”

“Let’s hear it, baby,” implored Amy encouragingly.

“For being gay,” Timmy admitted. “But, it’s such a hassle to recharge it, and I don’t have a plan or anything.”

“We get to California, we can glom onto California Lifeline and get free phones, service, ever’thing,” insisted Skylar.

“I don’t know, Skylar,” said Amy, shaking her head. “I heard they put tracking devices in them cell phones so they can know where you at all the time.”

“Amy, there so many shootings and other emergencies in California, I think I want the pigs to know where I am alla’ time, you know?” offered Maglie. “It’s not like we steal or nothin’; we jus’ vagrants.”

“Mags is right,” agreed Skylar. “Without a phone you’re cut off, flyin’ blind. Jus’ lookit us! California a whole new kettle ‘a fish. We’ll get ’em,” he said, summarily deciding for everyone.

& & &

Early the next night, Amy sat on a park bench beneath a streetlamp, furiously buffing her nails and unaware she was being observed. The figure looming over her was a raggedy, heavyset man with a full beard and closely resembled Amy’s friend Skylar, but when she glanced up she could instantly see that it was not him. Unlike her friend, this man was unkempt and filthy. She ran her eyes suspiciously up and down him.

“Can I help you?” she asked cautiously.

“Yes, you can, bitch, “growled the man ominously. “You. Can. Suck. My. Dick.”

Amy narrowed her eyes at the newcomer. “Thanks for the offer,” she replied curtly, “but no. No way.”

The man’s brows descended and he closed the distance between himself and Amy and reached for the much smaller woman. Taking up her cane, Amy brought the solid wood shaft down sharply on the man’s knuckles.

“Ow! You bitch! You’re gonna get fucked for that!” He grasped his smashed hand and sprawled onto the bench and grabbed for Amy. Amy staggered back off the bench and next brought the cane down as hard as she could on the creep’s knee. It was like being struck with a lightweight baseball bat. There was a loud cracking sound, like the crunch of walnuts. Grabbing her bag off the bench, Amy beat a hasty retreat and limped off into the cover of darkness. The injured man remained where he was, clutching his destroyed knee and vowing vengeance.

& & &

Several days later, Timmy managed to get a gig flipping burgers for a food truck parked in the greenspace outside the mall. He’d agreed to work for a subminimum wage, as a stand-in for an employee who’d taken ill. Timmy was thrilled at the opportunity; not only would he glean some cash, but he could eat his fill as well. His new employer had insisted that Timmy take himself off to a public restroom in the park to scrub the dirt from his limbs and from under his fingernails. The boss had then given him a clean shirt, Timmy’s first in several weeks. He’d grown accustomed to the stench of an unclean body. When he finished his shift, the manager told him to return at the same time the next day, in the event there was another call-off. Timmy had gladly agreed. It felt good to work.

That night, the gang reconnoitered at their regular spot and Timmy came bearing gifts. “Dinner’s on me,” he boasted, turning up a large paper bag of cold burgers and fries.

“All right, Timmy!” cried Amy, grabbing a cheeseburger from the bag and taking a big bite. The others all followed suit, but for Timmy; he’d eaten his fill all day. Rare was the day when he felt well-fed. He grinned at the others. Maglie alone did not snatch a burger; he did, however, nibble delicately at a bag of fries.

Amy recounted the attempted rape episode of earlier that evening. When asked who the predator had been, she was unable to say more than “He looked like Skylar.” The description was unfamiliar to everyone.

“It gets any colder,” remarked Skylar, “we’re gonna have to think about hittin’ the road.” The others nodded. The tramps were by nature outdoor creatures. They spent about 90% of their nights out of doors, the exception being during thunderstorms, when they sought out the shelters or hunkered under trees or at bus stops. Snow and sleet were not factors, as the group vacated the region each year before cold weather became an issue. “I decided on our departure date,” Skylar informed them.

There was a general release of tension around the fire. The decision had finally been made. “On Wednesday,” he continued, “we’ll take the Union Pacific; St. Louis to Oakland.”

“I ain’t sure I can hop a freight no more, Skylar,” lamented Amy, stretching out her bum leg. “Can’t we thumb a ride?”

“Got to stay together, Amy. Strength in numbers. Ain’t nobody on the highway gonna pick up four freaks like us at once. We’ll board just outside the depot, down the tracks,” Skylar told her, “before she gets movin’ very fast. We’ll help you.” She nodded, “Now,” he said robustly, reaching into his knapsack, “who wants some wine?”

4

On Tuesday, one day before their scheduled departure, Maglie combed through Forest Park, in search of recyclable glass containers. Skylar had told them they needed to accumulate a modest grubstake in order to imbed in the Oakland subculture once they asrrived on the coast. To that end, Maglie sifted through the refuse containers near the picnic areas, which were little used at this time of year. Pickings were slim.

A ghostly shadow suddenly loomed over the old man and he looked up with a start. A young cop was lurking, resplendent in his pressed blue uniform and shiny black accoutrements. He nervously fingered the holstered gun affixed prominently to his belt.

“What’re you doing, grandpa?” asked the cop with a smirk. Maglie narrowed his eyes at the other man. “I said, you old puke, what’re you doing here?”

Maglie bit off his reply and shook his head. “Jus’ gettin’ a few empties, officer.”

“This is city property,” snapped the young cop. “This is criminal trespass. You got ID?”

Maglie opened his fingers and let the empties fall with a clatter back into the barrel. “Sorry, officer,” he apologized. “I’ll move along.” He started to turn away.

“Hey, puke! I’m talking to you,” said the cop aggressively. “Don’t you turn away when I’m speaking!”

Maglie sighed tiredly. Suddenly a second figure joined the first.

“What’s the problem, Wilson?” asked the new policeman, ten years older than the first. The newcomer furrowed his brow with concern. Looking at Maglie, he said, “Hey, Mags, what’re you up to?” Maglie nodded and said nothing.

“You know this puke, Brad?” asked the first cop in surprise.

“This is Mr. Maglie, Wilson,” said Brad reprovingly. “It pays to know the citizens on your beat,” he added. “I thought you might even know him already.” Wilson looked at him inquiringly. “Mr. Maglie was goalkeeper on the 1960 men’s Olympic soccer team. I’ve known him for years, because my great uncle was on the team as well. You’re a soccer fan, Wilson; how could you not know Mags?”

Wilson felt heat in his face and he suddenly found his own shoes fascinating. “I…I’m sorry, Mr. Maglie,” he began contritely.

“Mags,” the old man corrected him. “And that’s okay.”

“Mags,” agreed Wilson, glad to be let off the hook. “Here, sir, lemme help you,” and together the three men scoured the waste barrels until Maglie had a garbage bag full to bursting with empties. After accepting a fresh cigar from Brad, Maglie took his leave, telling the cops he’d see them next spring. He thanked his lucky stars because, like usual, Maglie was packing.

5

But, come Wednesday, the little group didn’t gather, the freight was never hopped, the journey never made. Only Maglie arrived, and sat by himself, wondering why the others were so late. Idly picking up a copy of The St. Louis Post Dispatch daily off the bench upon which he sat, he read on page 2 about Timmy’s tragic fate. He perused the headline: “Man Killed on Stadium Plaza.” He read the article. A man was struck by by a taxi on the street fronting Busch Stadium downtown. The 19-year-old victim, the article said, was identified as Timothy Cullen White, and was pronounced dead on arrival at Barnes-Jewish Hospital. His next of kin, located in Kansas City, had been notified. Maglie felt as though a spear of ice had been plunged deep into his gut. Though he’d known Timmy only 6 months, he loved him, as he loved Skylar and Amy; they were all part of the only family he had. Maglie wondered what he should do next, then decided that Skylar could make that decision. Maglie didn’t learn until a day later that Skylar and Amy had met similar fates.

& & &

“C’mon, baby,” said Skylar playfully, pulling Amy by the hand from the wrought iron bench upon which they’d sat in front of the St. Louis Art Museum. They’d blithely surveyed the free Monet exhibit.

Amy limped after him, her cane grappling for purchase upon the rain- slick pavement. “A little respect, youngster,” she chided, playing the age card as she was wont to do with her friend.

“Shit, I’m the same age as you, woman!” he growled back in fun, playing the game.

“I am 7 months your elder,” she corrected him haughtily. “You were born in December; I was christened in May.”

“I stand corrected,” murmured Skylar, enjoying the light-hearted exchange.

Suddenly, a patrol car swept up to the curb and two policemen alighted from the vehicle. “Up against the car,” ordered one of the cops shortly, and displayed a pistol. He waved the weapon menacingly. Without a word, the two civilians leaned with their hands against the police car, their feet two steps to the rear. They’d been through this routine before. The other cop pulled first one arm and then the other behind the prisoners and fitted plastic restraints over their wrists. Then he pushed them into the car. Because of her weakened leg, Amy slipped and banged her head against the door frame. A thin bead of blood appeared on her forehead. She was shoved unceremoniously inside.

The two policemen sat up front, their prisoners on the rear seat. Skylar and Amy exchanged a concerned look. A glass partitian separated the front from the rear seats, so conversation with the cops was impossible. Not lost on Skylar was that both cops wore tight-fitting driving gloves.

Eerily, not a word passed between the two policemen as the vehicle sped through Forest Park. The car slammed to an abrupt halt and Skylar and Amy were jammed against the back of the front seats. Their doors opened. They were pulled from the vehicles. Skylar, after 20 years on the streets, knew the area like the palm of his hand, and he knew that this was perhaps the most remote, unvisited region of the park. This did not bode well for them, he thought. This was his final thought, as the barrel of a cheap, knock off weapon was placed against he head and discharged. Skylar crumpled to the moist soil and died without a sound.

Amy, who was facing away from Skylar and separated by several yards, jumped at the gun’s report.

“Poisonous fuck,” growled one man malevolently, and he shoved the weapon against Amy’s middle and pulled the trigger. When he spoke, Amy recognized the voice of one of the 8 or 10 cops who had raped her two weeks before.

Groaning and in unbelievable pain, she opened her eyes and recognized the face as well. “Hope your dick rots off, pig!” she said breathlessly. Then the cop emptied the gun into his helpless captive and discarded the weapon onto the grass. He removed the restraints from the victims’ wrists. From the shadows emerged the Skylar look-alike. One of the cops handed him a plastic bag containing a crystalline substance and the cops climbed back into their car and sped off into the night.

6

On Friday morning, having just read again of the murders in the park, Maglie put two and two together and came up with not four, but one:  he was the only one of his family left. Maglie didn’t know what could have moved Timmy to cross a busy downtown street against the lights at sunset, but he figured out what had become of Amy and, because of his proximity to her, Skylar. Resuming his seat 100 yards from the train depot, for the third day running, Maglie waited. But for what? Then he remembered. His mind was becoming a sieve.

He was only fooling himself, he knew. The others would never turn up, there would be no sojourn West, no new home in Oakland. He sighed tiredly. Pulling from his coat the new cigar given him by Brad two days ago, he slipped it between his lips and lighted it and inhaled. The smoke burned his lungs. Next, moving as if in a dream, he took the pistol, a vintage Luger his dad had gotten in the war, and regarded it. It was fully loaded, but the ammo was almost 70 years old. Would it even work? A single tear of sorrow fell from his eye and slid rapidly down his grizzled cheek. Placing the barrel of the weapon under his chin, he pulled the trigger without hesitation. It worked.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Bill Tope 2025